| Blood rushes - our new youth heat dream once locked in closets, fighting white-washed walls howling behind hidden trees We all angels screaming through wires traveling slow roads with desires spread out - lost lights blanketing darkness We dip our feet in Satyagraha and a thousand California Buddhists bookmarked on high-ways of metal trains and neon pain cancer lights Wishing to bless wheat fields with our gasoline - eyes blazing with sky colors ears thrown by words washing out From the cliffs of Big Sur the lovely nothing of New Mexico sands Gambling hands gripping the wheel somewhere near the dry-heat moon on the way through Colorado skies Waking before dawn to wash with light chapped mouths singing joy poetry and feeling Tequila haze awareness of last-night exploits Our salted skin, bronzed, open, magicking out sex-dreams in thick rivers, the appendages of some far-off ocean. In a flowered Taos graveyard, laying chest to cool grass with the dead, we admire gravestones. |
| Blood Rushes |
| "One must hunger fiercely for the truth to be able to cherish it." Abraham J. Heschel |
| unfinished . . . Trees melt in the heat haze over Oglala roads - where we awake mornings in salmon pink paint an turqoise rugs, to some buzz-horn call for all those not hung over and just passing through. Imagined transport to junkie freedom and the talent of beat poetry - The Road strikes out through desert . . . Go West! screaming in my hope horizons, bleeding sunlight in red - and night whispers poetry to me while sleepy dream travelers shoot past - too fast for the sand to grit their skin; too fast to get sky blessings - great inspiration words from squatting rock Buddhas . . . |
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